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Beside a Streamlet.
 
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33

Beside a Streamlet.

Beside a streamlet, where the whispering reeds
And fragrant flags upon its borders play,
Where down the valley it meandering leads,
My infant footsteps first were taught to stray.
The sylvan Muse enticed me to her cell,
My childish fingers wanton'd o'er her lyre,
And, pleased to hear the rustic numbers swell,
I fondly thought that others must admire.
So, as I grew, and learn'd to sweep the strings,
By art directed, though less sweetly wild,
I envied not the happiness of kings,
My lyre was bliss, and I a happy child.
With fond regret I left that calm retreat,
Diversified with meadows, groves, and hills,
Where nature's charms in sweet disorder meet,
With Charles's thousand tributary rills.